


Four Long Years

by sternenblumen



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s03e04 The Queen’s Diamonds, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 03, Stream of Consciousness, no beta we die like men, vaguely episode-related
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 11:07:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22968976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternenblumen/pseuds/sternenblumen
Summary: It's been four long years, and just going back to how things have been is impossible.Porthos and Aramis talk. At least a bit.
Relationships: Aramis | René d'Herblay & Porthos du Vallon
Comments: 11
Kudos: 38





	Four Long Years

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like most fics about the estrangement between Aramis and his brothers in S03 come at it mostly from Aramis' perspective, and they forget the core of the matter, which is that it was him who distanced himself from them in the first place. Expecting to just slip back into a place he abandoned (no matter how much he believes his reasons for it to be good) is just unrealistic. So here's an attempt to come at it from Porthos' side of things that's less about hurt feelings and more about the simple fact that four years is a damn long time, especially when you're at war.
> 
> I have to admit that I don't remember the episode very clearly as I didn't watch S03 as often as the rest, so I apologise if there are some incongruences (probably shouldn't have used the episode as the hook but what can you do when it feels like the right place to set it?).

He’s gone.

At first it’s unreal, when things are happening so quickly. d’Artagnan and Constance marry, and he is happy for them, smiling brightly, and wearing a blue sash around his waist as his brothers do, so he is here with them, in a way. And then there’s war, and Athos is Captain, and Tréville is the new minister, and they have to work get prepared and leave so quickly, there is no time to stop and think and _really start to miss him_.

But then they are at war, and war means fighting, and he is suddenly aware of how much has changed, how little he can rely on, because these fights are so different, and his back is left bare. There is d’Artagnan, always on his right, unless his recklessness carries him too far. But he looks for him, he comes back every time. And sometimes there is someone on his left, Athos, cool and implacable, steadfast and sturdy. He cannot be there all the time, as much as they would both like it, because the Captain cannot fight as a foot soldier does anymore. But when he does, it is always to Porthos’ left.

But his back is left bare.

There are days he aches with longing so strong that he can barely walk, where he is tempted to drown it in wine and ale if the one they had were any stronger than horse piss and didn't leave him with nothing more than a painful head and the dark cloud twice as large as before. There are days where it turns him into an enraged bull that no one but d’Artagnan and Athos can calm. Beware the Spanish that end up opposite of him on those days! Beware his comrades if they do not go to battle on those days. And he aches, and he aches, and he wants it to stop and at the same time never would wish it so, because what will become of him if he stops missing his brother?

It doesn’t stop.

But it fades, changes, becomes muted under Athos’ rare smiles, the light in d’Artagnan’s eyes when he claps him on his back in delight at some quip, their steady presence in his life. Their life at war, marching, and waiting, and fighting, and then marching and waiting again. It’s part of it, like the dry, stale rations, the itching of healing wounds (stitched by someone else, and how horrified he’d be at the needlework), the thin bedrolls on hard ground, the flies and the boredom (how he would hate the boredom most). Missing him is not a battle, it’s everything else. It doesn’t go away. But it gets easier.

* * *

And then he’s there. Suddenly, in the cellar of a monastery (how did he not recognise it? Remember how they came here and asked him to come back, and he refused them?), he’s here, and d’Artagnan and Athos rush at him, sentimental fools that they are, to give him a hug.

His bare back hurts beneath the armour.

“We have learned to live without you.”

It’s cruel, he knows that. It’s true. And it’s necessary.

He knows he needs to say it because seeing him again, allowing himself to find joy in his friend, his brother, being there with him again, and then going back without him?

Take off his sword arm, and it would hurt less.

* * *

He comes back with them. Back to Paris, which is a wonder and a blessing and too good to be true on its own. And he’s back.

He’s back.

He’s back.

Things are strange. Paris is strange. The Red Guards are wild beasts that Feron unleashes on the city, and he can’t believe that he’d ever look back and yearn for Richelieu, because while they’ve always been useless and cowardly and had readily done the snake’s bidding … there was some control, at least. Now he’d never turn his back on a Red Guard.

His back that still feels bare at times.

The others help. Constance, who has turned into a ferocious warrior of her own, all of that bright wildness that neither her useless git of a husband (the first - he’s quite fond of the second) nor all the Court dresses in the world could smother free for the world to see, a Garrison full of cadets trailing after her like ducklings. Athos, who still hates being Captain but does it better now, four years later, who almost revels in commanding in a city instead of on a battlefield. It might still be a war of a different kind but it’s one they are better at waging. d’Artagnan, fierce and still so vulnerable at the same time, burning with fury at what had been happening here while they fought elsewhere.

And he’s back. That helps, too. Even if it’s strange.

* * *

“Sometimes I wonder if there is still room for me.”

They are sitting at their table, after that whole Bonnaire business - God, he hates that man - with the English Queen and the diamonds, and yeah, that had been a bad day. For all of them, but especially for him. Still, it catches Porthos by surprise.

“Wha--?”

“I know it’s been hard on you that I left. But sometimes it feels as if you didn’t want me back at all.”

Aramis’ voice is quiet, hurt, speaking to his knees rather than directly to him. “You really learned to live without me.”

Porthos bristles, sitting up and staring at his friend. “Yes,” he says, daring him to look back at him. “What of it?”

“And you still do.”

Porthos frowns and crosses his arms on the tabletop. “You’re here now, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Just--” He sighs and still doesn’t look at him. “It used to be me.”

The frown deepens. “What?”

“You know.”

“If I knew, I’d not be askin’. What used to be you?”

“It used to be me you turned to first. It used to be us against the world. It used to be me and you - not you and Athos, aiming a pistol at me when I’m trying to help!” The words rush forward, suddenly, a great torrent of simmering hurt. “Not you and d’Artagnan, who have a shorthand and a way to speak that I don’t understand! Why did you want me to come back when there’s no more place for me at your side?” He finally looks up, and Porthos meets his eyes, brimming with despair.

He breathes a big gust of air and clamps down on the urge to yell back, to hurl back the hurt of four long years. Four years without him. Sometimes, the raging bull got himself back under control, and Athos and d’Artagnan are not here right now.

“Because you’re still my brother,” he says instead. “You’ll always be.”

He sits up straight and holds his gaze earnestly. “There is space for you. Just not the same as before.”

Aramis folds down miserably. “I know I don’t deserve--”

Porthos’ fist makes the tabletop bounce, rattling the mugs and the plates of their evening meal. “It’s not about deserving!” he all but bellows. Quieting down, he continues, trying his best to keep his voice even. He’s had time thinking about this, even if it still takes him by surprise that they are having this conversation. “It’s not about whatever you’re makin’ this about in your head, an’ I know what you’re thinkin’ because I know you. You’re thinkin’ about the Queen, and the Dauphin, and that stupid oath of yours, and then you left the monastery anyway, so it’s only fittin’ punishment, isn’t it? You probably should just get back to the monastery to leave us all in peace, eh?”

It’s answer enough that he doesn’t meet his eyes when Porthos has ended. He sighs and suddenly feels so old. Good thing he’s no longer at war, that’s no place for old men. “It’s not punishment. And it wouldn’t get better if you run away again,” he says flatly.

He startles and sits up, indignant. “I didn’t run away!”

Porthos waves a hand at him. “Call it ‘penance’, honorin’ your oath, takin’ responsibility, whatever,” he grouses. “Jus’ callin’ a spade a spade.” Aramis opens his mouth to answer but Porthos silences him with another gesture. “Not the point. The point is--” He falters because it’s hard to say but it’s true. “Time didn’t stand still. Don’t know if that’s what it felt like, in that monastery. Didn’t feel like it on the battlefield, I can tell you. Felt like sand runnin’ through my fingers, most days. Well, unless it didn’t, because hell, war can be damnable boring sometimes. Anyway. It moved. And we moved with it.”

He leans forward, again earnestly searching out his gaze. “I won’t apologise for how we dealt with it,” he says. “How we still deal with it. Because Aramis, you made a decision. _You_ made that decision. And it’s had consequences. I won’t apologise for that.”

Aramis nods slowly. “I know I did. But still …” He looks back up at him, eyes watery. “I missed you, too. Every day. And I still do.”

“Then do something about it,” Porthos demands. “I’m here. You’re here. If you miss me, tell me. Just--” He sighs, decides it is time, reaches out a hand, palm up on the table. “Don’t expect things to be like they were back then. It’s been four years. Pup’s all grown up. He’s a good one to have at your side, you know. Athos’s been very busy with captainin’. Can’t help that I didn’t hold out for a hope might never have come true. Things changed. We’re all changed. But y’know, at the heart of it, it’s still true.” He waits, and slowly, almost reluctantly, Aramis places his hand into the waiting palm. “All for one.”

Aramis takes a deep breath and gives his hand a squeeze. “And one for all.”

**Author's Note:**

> I do not intend this to mean that Porthos is right - it's his perspective, and he's definitely nursing some hurt about Aramis leaving. Nor do I intend this to be resolved by the end of it! It's just a first step in addressing the problem.
> 
> I dearly hope that the amount of "he" isn't too confusing, it just felt right to avoid names for the most part ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯.
> 
> Also, hi, I write things that make me cry when I'm not feeling good, it seems.


End file.
